Something You Forgot To Mention
by LucyCrewe11
Summary: Years after the events in the movie, Anya's 13-year-old daughter finds a tattered court dress and discovers that her mother is none other than the lost Russian princess! It seems impossible that Anastasia should be living secretly in France with a husband and two children, but sometimes -when fear strikes close to home- the impossible is all that's left to hope for. One-shot.


**AN: One-shot. Takes place after the movie. Implied Anya/Dimitri; mostly features their daughter's POV in third person. **

_Something You Forgot To Mention_

An _Anastasia_ fanfic By LucyCrewe11

Mama and Papa loved each other; everybody knew _that_. Even Tatiana, the most cynical almost-thirteen-year-old on the planet, couldn't deny how much her parents adored each other.

Why else would Mama put on that hideous blue dress with those terrible white ruffles she had to tuck in to greet Papa whenever he came home from a business venture?

It certainly wasn't in good taste. Not only was the dress unpleasant-looking, it was _old_. _Very_ old.

So old, in fact, that there were photographs of Mama wearing it when she was _young_, long before Tatiana and her twin brother came along.

"Why don't you buy a _new_ blue dress?" Tatiana had once asked. _Or wear one of the other _nicer _dresses you _already _have?_ She'd felt her eyes drifting over to Mama's wardrobe involuntarily. It was full of pretty clothes. For some reason, Mama always had prettier dresses than any other woman Tatiana knew. All except for that horrid blue one...

"Oh, I've had this one for _so_ long..." Mama had begun, smiling to herself.

_I _know, Tatiana had to keep from muttering under her breath.

"Your father bought it for me. It was the first new dress anyone had given me since I was eight years old." Mama's smiled deepened here. "And it was too big for me then." She'd gained some weight since having Tatiana and her brother; she was skinny in the pictures of her youth, full-figured and round-faced now. "I teased him." She giggled, shaking her head and setting down her hairbrush. "Told him he'd bought me a tent and the Russian circus was still in there."

Her brother would have giggled at that, Tatiana knew. But she didn't. She'd never had a sense of humor, really, apart from occasional sarcasm. And even then, she only thought her _own sarcasm_ was funny, not anybody else's.

But there it was, then. The reason Mama wore that ugly dress. Because of Papa.

Because she was in love with him. Even after several years of marriage.

Plenty of girls would have found this romantic, but not Tatiana. Romance, in her mind, was better saved for the gorgeous heroes and heroines in novels. Mama might have been pretty as one once (and even that was questionable, since good heroines are supposed to be slender with busting bosoms, not skinny as a rail, like Mama in the old pictures), but now she just looked like any Russian woman living in a villa in the French countryside might. Nothing special. Papa, too. He was heavier around the midsection now, because he liked their cook's meals too much, and who'd ever heard of a doughy hero?

And her parents refused -just plain _refused_- to accept this fact. They gazed at each other, held hands, stole inappropriately passionate kisses when they thought the children weren't looking... Papa still played with Mama's hair, for pity's sake! He thought she was beautiful in that stupid blue dress, and she thought he was the handsomest man she ever saw, coming through that door so out of shape he was panting for breath.

All _Tatiana_ could see was a sweaty man who was going to hug them all without bothering to bathe first and make them _smell_ bad. She was fond of her Papa, deep down, but she didn't like it when his sweat got on her.

It was terribly undignified.

Still, Mama never even _looked_ at another man, and Papa wouldn't take a mistress.

As she was very precocious and rather nosy, Tatiana took pride in knowing that their nearest neighbors -whose children they sometimes were forced to play with- were not like Mama and Papa. _Those_ children's father had another woman he sent money to and visited when he went away on business trips. That didn't surprise Tatiana, for their mother was older and rough-voiced and not pretty at all. Their father was handsome and younger, with a blonde mustache. _Her_ papa had no blond mustache of course, but he still could have taken a mistress. Except he loved Mama too much.

It wasn't that Tatiana wanted her Papa cheating on her Mama. Far from it. It was just... Well, she felt sort of unloved by him sometimes. If Papa had a mistress, she could chalk it all up to his being too tired from having another secret daughter somewhere, giving her all his love and attention. So his mistress wouldn't get mad and deny him, of course. Naturally the mistress wouldn't have a son, because Papa had no problems being the perfect father to Tatiana's twin. This should have been because Ivan was the only boy. That would have made sense. Tatiana could have forgiven that.

Alas, that was an impossible explanation. Papa would throw himself into a river before he'd cheat on Mama. And there was no other way for him to have another daughter.

So it had to be, much as it pained Tatiana to believe, simply that he liked Ivan _better_.

Her twin brother Ivan, who everybody called 'Nicky' (short for his middle name, Nicholas). Only Tatiana called him Ivan. She insisted on it. Just because Papa always said "_Nicky_," with such affection.

Nicky got all his praise and was allowed to do so many more things than Tatiana. Sometimes it made her _sick_, just_ thinking_ about it!

She'd wanted so badly to learn to play poker, for example, but Papa said no she couldn't learn. He'd gotten that faraway, tight-lipped look on his face that she knew she couldn't argue with. She'd _had_ to take his no for an answer, even though she didn't want to.

And _what_ did she walk in on one day? Papa teaching Ivan how to play poker! _Ivan_! Ivan was a good fellow, for what it was worth, but he couldn't play poker. He wasn't sneaky enough for it. Too much of an open book.

Tatiana had been furious. She'd actually _cried_ about it. Then promptly crept over to her parents' bedroom door as soon as she'd stopped shaking from rage and sobs enough to listen quietly.

"Dimitri," she heard Mama say softly. "You _could_ have taught her. She'd have been good at it."

"That's what worries me," Papa replied. "Nicky's never going to be good at poker. Tatiana would have cleaned me out after an hour."

"Tatiana's not going to grow up to be dishonest just because she's good at poker."

"I know, Anya, I know," he sighed. "I just want to keep her innocent a little longer. Is that so-" He stopped. "Anya, we have to switch to Russian now." They'd been speaking a mixture of French and English up till this point.

"What?"

"Tatiana's listening at the door."

Mama hadn't known. She _never _knew. Papa was the only one who ever caught their daughter spying. "How do you always know?"

"She gets that sly, sneaky stuff from _me_." But this he'd said in Russian, so Tatiana hadn't understood. "_That's_ exactly why I don't want her playing poker, Anya."

All Tatiana got from that was her father shutting her out _again_. Ivan spoke Russian; he'd taught himself. _She_ was the only one who didn't. It was _her _Papa was cutting out. He had his wife and his son, both who were fat and spoke Russian. What did he need Tatiana for?

Angrily, she kicked the door. Then whimpered. Then limped loudly down the hallway, knocking over and breaking as many valuable things as she could while she was at it.

Mama, who sensed what Papa never could, that Tatiana wasn't just mad about poker, tried many times to tell her how much Papa loved his precious daughter.

"Ivan's his favorite," Tatiana always insisted stubbornly.

Impatient, Mama would whack her with something -usually a hairbrush or a mirror- and exclaim, "Little _Shvibzik_! Can't you tell he loves _you_ best? That you remind him of himself?"

She never saw it that way. Mama was only trying to make her feel better, and doing a darned poor job of it. Papa couldn't see himself in her, because she knew for a fact she was _nothing_ like Papa. She didn't even _look_ like him, except for her nose. Her nose that was a constant source of distress to her, because it was too long.

Papa's was all right, because it didn't slope straight down like hers, though it matched hers perfectly in all other respects.

"My nose was as straight as yours, Tatiana," Papa told her once when he caught her measuring it with a ruler, eyes widening in dismay. "It's only crooked because a solider hit me in the face with his gun during the Russian revolution and broke it. Your nose is how mine_ should _look."

As if that made it better! Should, could, would! Who cared? Whatever Papa's nose _should_ look like, that wasn't how it looked _now_.

Besides, he was probably lying.

Papa would have been only a little boy during the start of the revolution. So how could a soldier have hit him in the face? At that age, Tatiana knew for a fact her Papa was employed as a kitchen boy in a rich person's house. She didn't know _whose _house, exactly, but she _did_ know revolutionary soldiers didn't have vendettas for ordinary kitchen boys.

They wouldn't have bothered with _him_.

Mama, though, was another matter entirely. Mama didn't talk much about where she'd come from, still Tatiana figured she'd been a wealthy Russian blue-blood before the revolution.

How else could you explain the fact that she spoke German, French, English, and Russian fluently? That she pressed such an urgency for language and other difficult lessons none of Tatiana's friends were required to learn onto her children?

And certainly someone wealthy was giving their precious relative Anya and her family a generous pension to live off of.

Papa couldn't afford a villa on his own; his business ventures had never been successful enough for that. And Uncle Vlad (who was not really their uncle, but one of Papa's friends, actually called _Vladimir_) had once been a member of the imperial court, but he wasn't so rich now, either. He could support himself decently, but he couldn't even _marry_, if he wanted; that was how low-income he truly was. So it wasn't _him_ supporting Mama in luxurious housing and clothing.

Tatiana had even gone so far once as to suspect Mama was really a secret countess who'd escaped -just barely- before so many nobles were horribly killed. Only, that seemed impossible.

Even if there _was _a lesser-countess named Anya, according to Tatiana's research.

No, Mama was not a countess, because a countess -even one fleeing a change of government- would not be permitted to marry a mere kitchen boy.

Probably, Mama wouldn't have been allowed to marry him simply because he was poor, regardless of what titles she did or did not hold. Luckily, the revolution made _everybody_ poor. One of Uncle Vlad's distant half-nieces had actually married a German farmer and settled someplace near Switzerland!

Imagine that, a _farmer_! Tatiana was _so _glad _her _Papa wasn't a farmer. Kitchen boy turned entrepreneur could be made to sound glamorous in fashionable circles; _farmer_, could not.

And if Mama had been a countess, Tatiana imagined they'd live in _Paris_, not some nameless countryside home, going to wonderful parties glittering with restored diamonds, meeting up with cousins for tea.

Splendid royal-ish cousins who had gold-rimmed saucers and Ming china and lots of rubies and sapphires...

Sometimes Tatiana pretended she was a countess. She'd borrow clothes from Mama's wardrobe and dab on a little (a very little, since that was all Mama allowed) perfume and spin, spin, spin until she got dizzy.

It was a constant sore spot with her that Mama never let her try on any of her pretty jewelry.

Mama had a diamond choker and earrings, and a few other pieces Tatiana would have died to wear even once, but the answer was always, "No, Tatiana, you're too young for real jewels." Just like she was too young for rouge. _Ugh_!

It wasn't like Mama wore her own jewelry that much, anyway. She kept it in a safe. The only piece she ever wore was some silly chain that Tatiana wasn't even sure was real. Mama had had it even longer than she'd had Papa's blue dress. Since she was a little girl, she said. From her Grandmama. Whom Tatiana and Ivan were never invited to come and visit.

For that reason, for leaving her stuck with Ivan and Papa, Tatiana had hated her great grandmother by age six.

A year later, she'd learned Great Grandmama lived in Paris (a place Tatiana ached for even then) and begged on bended knee to be allowed a chance to make Mama's grandmother like her.

Mama said, "But Nicky isn't coming, you know how sick riding around all day makes him, and I can't leave just him and Papa here. Who would be there to help them if they hurt themselves? All men are such babies." Here she'd smiled over at Papa, who'd chuckled and winked at her. "You need to stay here and be a strong little woman for Mama. If you're good, I'll bring you back chocolates. And peppermints for Nicky."

How could Tatiana have refused? Plain, boring Mama looked almost _pretty_ in her big grand hat with the gold-trimmed bow on it, and she sounded so _clever_... Tatiana liked it when Mama talked as if they were _both_ so necessary to Papa's life. It cured her of the worry that if anything happened to Mama, Papa would just take Ivan and leave her in an orphanage somewhere to beg for scraps like _Oliver Twist_.

Oh, God, how she hated that book, and hated that Ivan loved it!

* * *

"Ivan, where's Mama?" Tatiana demanded, stomping over to his favorite plush chair.

He sneezed and looked up from the Hans Christian Andersen volume he was engrossed in. "Getting ready. Papa's coming back today. Did you forget?"

"I _never _forget," she snapped.

That was one thing she had over Ivan, and always would. Ivan had forgotten exactly _four_ times which days Papa was coming back on. She'd _never _forgotten. She'd always glided out to meet Papa, all dressed up and perfect, right after he was through kissing Mama hello. She was never forgetful and ruffled like her twin.

"Okay, okay." He put his thumb in the book to keep his place, closing it. "Don't bite my head off."

On the stand next to the fancy reading lamp, was a sloppery, half-eaten stick of peppermint. Tatiana recoiled, then sighed. Ivan was a sneezing, wheezing blob of _meat_. Chubby, nonathletic, useless, might as well be a slow-working brain on a stick, but he was undeniably like Mama and Papa. Reddish-brown hair from them both, Mama's chin, Mama's hands, Papa's cheekbones and forehead... They were _twins_, and what had _she_ gotten? Just red hair and a funny nose that didn't look right because no one had had the good sense to break it for her when she was younger. It still made her want to cry whenever someone, not noticing the nose, asked -however discreet and tactful they _thought_ they were being- if she was _adopted_.

"Mama's _not_ in her room, Ivan," Tatiana insisted, after a long pause.

Ivan shrugged. He wanted to read some more. "Maybe you just missed her."

She folded her arms across her chest and dramatically stomped away.

Ivan was used to it. He didn't think his sister knew _how_ to leave a room the way normal, nontheatrical people did. And that was okay with him. In his quiet, shy way, he'd always been fond of the sister who was so desperate for attention she never failed to make a ruckus and give him a much-needed respite.

His drama queen sister was a god-send. If he'd thought to, Ivan would have idolized her.

Chuckling, sounding remarkably like his father, he went back to Andersen's tale of _The Ugly Duckling_.

* * *

"_Mama_? Mama, where _are _you?" Tatiana pulled open Mama's bedroom door and threw herself into the room, but it was empty.

Despite the fact that she was getting old for it, and had thought her brother must have arrested development for reading Andersen at his age, she wanted very badly to try on Mama's dresses. It wasn't so juvenile now, she justified it; it would be better, more mature now, because she was finally almost big enough to _fit_ into one of those dresses! She'd shot up like a weed this past summer. Papa said so. And Mama tiredly measured, to reassure Tatiana he wasn't just saying that to make her feel better.

He wasn't.

Say, was that Mama's voice, coming from the kitchen? Telling their cook exactly what to make for Papa's return? Oh, if _that's_ where she was, she could be busy for almost an _hour_!

Tatiana needed no further invitation. She threw open the wardrobe and helped herself to a lacy rose-pink gown. Then a yellow one with a blue-and-green sash. And an olive one with a glittery belt. And a suede suit with pretty silver buttons. She was just reaching over to try on some hats, when she noticed a bit of ripped fabric and jumped back in horror.

Had all her yanking in excitement ripped a dress so far in the back she hadn't realized it was even there?

Oh, no! Mama was going to be _furious_!

But wait, she couldn't have ripped it. She was taking it out now and it wasn't just one rip, it was _all over_... This dress -once grand- was tatters!

Oh, and it was more than a mere dress, it was a ball gown...

It almost looked like...a _court_ dress... It was yellow-gold and had probably had long, graceful sleeves before it got all torn.

Who would have trashed such a pretty, pretty thing? It was _heartbreaking_!

And if Mama was set on keeping it, why not try and have it repaired? Though, to be sure, it would have cost thousands... Tatiana had never seen such perfectly fine fabric before. Everything else Mama wore was trash compared to this. And that blue dress was just nasty rags.

Something seemed wrong. Tatitana pushed past hanging coats and discovered a box, under where the dress had been. A simple cardboard box with an _A _on it.

Tatiana pulled out an old, somewhat faded, photograph of what looked like young Mama and Papa on a steamship, getting married! This wouldn't have been so shocking if Mama hadn't always told Tatiana that there was no wedding, that they eloped. And so, as fervently as Tatiana might beg to try on her mother's wedding dress, 'there simply _wasn't _one, darling'.

To be fair, there truly _was_ no wedding dress in the picture. Only the same dress Tatiana had just found, the grand one. And it was tattered in the photograph, too. It must have gotten ruined before Mama and Papa married.

Also in the box were older, framed photographs of a family that Tatiana had never seen before. But she still knew their clothes. Those were the clothes of the imperial Romanov family! And the youngest girl, didn't she bear a striking resemblance to _Mama_?

That wasn't all! There was a little gold-and-green jewelry box (or what she assumed was a jewel box, for what else could it be?) with a lock and a glittering Fabergé Egg!

Not to mention any number of letters from Great Grandmama, who was actually none other than Maria Feodorovna, the Dowager Empress!

* * *

"She's _Anastasia_!" Tatiana shouted as she burst into the room.

Ivan looked up. Again. He'd only just made it from_ The Ugly Duckling_ to the very beginning of _The Tinderbox_. As much as he liked reading, he was kind of slow and didn't appreciate being interrupted. Not even by his dear sister.

Tatiana glared at him, plopping down in front of his chair to show him the tattered dress and old photographs she'd carried in her arms all the way from Mama's room. (She'd left the other stuff back in the box.)

"_Who_?" yawned Ivan, not even bothering to close the book this time.

"_Mama_, stupid!"

"Mama's name is _Anya_," Ivan said slowly, as if he thought Tatiana might be just a little overtired.

"That's just _it_," Tatiana hissed; "she_ lied_ to us, Ivan. She's a _princess_. Our Mama is the last grand duchess of all Russia!"

"She's only a princess to Papa," her twin replied rather sentimentally.

"Shut up and listen," growled Tatiana. "Mama is _Anastasia Romanov_. She's not just some lesser noble from Russia. Our grandmama -the one Mama never let us visit in Paris- was the mother of the tsar."

"No, not Mama." He shook his head sweetly. "She couldn't be."

"But look!" she cried, thrusting the pictures at him. "Anastasia, _here_! And Mama, in a court dress here with _Papa_!"

"Them photographs are years apart."

"I _know_ that!" Ivan was an idiot. Of _course_ they were years apart; Mama was a little girl in one, and getting married in the other! That was not the _point_.

"Look at this dress." She dumped it in his lap, over his book, over the photographs even. "See, here is where there should have been a regal blue sash... And these tatters here show shimmering material and-"

Ivan didn't seem to care.

"Ugh! Don't you _get _it? They lied! They _lied_ to us! Mama and Papa didn't even let us know where we really-"

Ivan's face went white. Was he finally getting it? "If Mama's really Anastasia, that means she's a carrier."

"_What_?" Tatiana's nose wrinkled in confusion.

"Oh, don't you remember, Tatiana?" asked Ivan, his voice growing melancholy. "All those times Mama took me to the doctors to run tests when I was little, and she almost fainted that time when I was seven and I accidentally cut my thumb open with the cheese knife?" He closed the book now. "It came out recently, about the last Tsar's son having had hemophilia; that awful sickness that made him bleed... Poor Mama. Remember how Papa had to catch her? And how he keep saying, 'Anya, he's _not _sick... Anya the doctors swore he doesn't have it; it's just a cut'?"

Tatiana glowered. Of course she didn't remember. Or, she _did_ remember Papa talking to Mama, holding her up so she didn't collapse, but she hadn't understood _what _he'd been saying. She didn't speak Russian. _She _hadn't taught herself Russian at age five like Ivan. German and French and English were hard enough to keep straight. Mama pretended, always, to sympathize, but she still persisted in talking to Papa in Russian most of the time, straining that ever-widening gap between them and their resentful daughter.

"It doesn't matter. We know _you're _not a bleeder, Ivan. So who _cares _if Mama carried the gene? What's important here is they've -Mama and Papa both- kept this a secret from us. We're royalty. Why, I bet that's what they talk about in Russian when they're whispering in front of us! All about Mama's lost palace and-"

Ivan giggled in a very unmanly way and went red all over. "Trust me, that's _not_ what they're talking about. It's far more mushy."

"But how can Mama _do _this?" Tatiana fumed, standing up and grinding her toe into the carpet. "People don't even know Anastasia's still alive. Not for sure. Oh, there were rumors, and that newspaper that came out -about a party she never showed up for- so everybody thought... People think she's _dead_, Ivan. And she's right here. And she's _Mama_!"

"Maybe Mama didn't like being a princess."

"You don't _dislike_ being a _princess_." Tatiana would have loved to be one. She felt she _should _have been, if Mama hadn't so cruelly kept the truth from her and Ivan. She should have been allowed to go to Paris and meet Grandmama and be publicly known as Anastasia Romanov's daughter.

"Would they have let her marry Papa?" he said, so innocently. "If she was announced as Anastasia at a court ball?"

Suddenly it all made sense! The tattered dress, uncared for, trashed. A princess who rose again only to pull the disappearing act before it could be known.

"She gave it all up for _Papa_!" Tatiana sounded disgusted.

"Papa's _nice_," Ivan said gently. "What's wrong with Papa?"

"Nothing's wrong with Papa, Ivan, but he _was_ a kitchen boy, and Mama's a princess."

"So?"

"_So_?" she scoffed. "Princesses don't marry kitchen boys."

"You're not going to tell Mama all this?"

"You wanna _bet_, Ivan?"

"But she's so happy, about Papa coming back, and you'll only make her sad."

_Sad! _Tatiana wanted her to be more than merely _sad_! She wanted her Mama to feel ashamed for keeping this secret, for ruining her own life over some kitchen boy and then lying about it.

A little dog came running into the room, sniffing at Tatiana's feet.

As if hoping to distract her, Ivan commented. "Why doesn't Pooka play like she used to?"

"Because she's very old," she snapped, her mind still on Mama's betrayal.

"Old?" Ivan bent down and scooped up Pooka. "You're not so old. Good doggie, then."

"She is _so_ old," Tatiana reminded him. "Ask Mama. She says she's had Pooka since before she married Papa. But, of course, _that_ might be a lie, too. Maybe Pooka's really only as old as we are."

Ivan hated it when Tatiana got that look of pure rage on her face, but he knew better than to interfere. So he sat there, petting Pooka some more, watching as Tatiana gathered up the photographs and the dress again and left the way she'd entered.

* * *

Tatiana balled her fists and prepared herself. She was going to confront Mama. She was going to yell at her for being a fake and a fool. She _was_!

In fact, she would have already done so if Mama had still been in the kitchen. She'd even come up with just the right words: _Something you forgot to _mention_, Mama? _

But someone had come to call at the door -one of their closest neighbors- and she'd gone to see them.

Would it be very wicked of her to yell at Mama in front of the neighbor?

Or maybe it would be just as well, revealing Mama's secret to not _quite_ a stranger, but near enough. Near enough that surely _she_ didn't know Mama was a princess.

No, best to see if Mama repented first, now that she had found her out. She wouldn't yell straight off; she'd wait till the neighbor was gone.

But she wanted to be in the room, ready the minute that door closed behind the bothersome woman who was delaying her big moment.

As she marched in, Tatiana found herself frozen in the doorway.

Why was Mama crying? Why was she looking at the newspaper with her mouth slightly agape, free hand reaching up to press against it? Why was the woman patting her back and saying, "Oh, you poor dear, perhaps...perhaps...perhaps we're wrong..."?

"But the description!" Mama said in a choked voice, speaking French as she always did with the neighbors. "It does sound..."

"I know, darling, I know. That's why I _had _to tell you."

"Mama?" Tatiana called out. How wrong she'd been! If this was Mama sad, she didn't want it. Mama didn't have to be a princess if she didn't like; if only she wouldn't cry so.

"Oh, poor lamb!" cried the neighbor, at seeing Tatiana. "Oh, I'm not sure I can bear it. How many children again?"

"Two," Mama managed numbly, her lips barely moving. "Her and Nicky."

A lump of dread settled in Tatiana's stomach. "It's Papa, isn't it?"

"Possibly, dear, possibly." The neighbor shook her head like there was a bee caught in her ears.

Tatiana raced forward and snatched the paper away from Mama and the woman. Mama didn't even protest; she stood shell-shocked.

_Ex-Conman Shot Dead At Train Station By Former Victim _

The story was all about how this man who'd been tricked out of a lot of money several years ago had recognized one of the conmen at the station and, pulling out a gun, opened fire on him.

Taken by surprise, he was killed more or less instantly.

Now the man who was shot was described as tall and brown-haired, and Papa's age, but this couldn't be him. Papa was never a conman... Not _her _papa. She was sure of it.

Her papa, who could play poker better than anyone...? Maybe she _wasn't_ so sure.

But instead of thinking, _Heavens! A kitchen boy_ and_ a conman, _really_, Mama? _as an indignant blue-blood ought, all Tatiana could think was _Dear God no,_ please _no. Don't let it be Papa. He can love Ivan better, and Mama, too; I don't mind so much anymore. I'll never complain again, if only he'll come back. _

Mama's back was against the wall and she was sliding down it.

_I need a bigger bargaining chip._ Tatiana closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. _God, if it's not Papa that's shot... If you let Papa come back tonight and kiss Mama hello, I won't even tell Mama I know about her being a princess. I'll never say a word. Not to her. Not to anybody. Except Ivan. But only because he already knows. _

* * *

That evening, Mama sat listlessly in the parlor. She was still wearing that blue dress, but Tatiana didn't think it was so ugly now. Papa liked it, and he should get to see it again. To him, it was beautiful. Beautiful on Mama. And if it was beautiful to Papa, she'd quit mocking it.

If only he'd come back and see it.

Just as the last rays of the sunset disappeared, visible till the very end because Mama didn't close the drapes today, the door creaked open and in walked a miracle.

_Papa._

He was perfectly fine, carrying presents for her and Ivan and Mama, smiling until he noticed Mama was blotchy from weeping.

"Dimitri!" Mama jumped up and ran into his arms.

Papa dropped the gifts on the floor and embraced her. "What's wrong?"

Pulling away ever so slightly, Mama gasped out, in a broken mix of Russian, English, and French, "I read the paper, about that conman who was shot, and I thought... He sounded like _you_...and there was no picture..."

Tatiana slipped away while Papa played with Mama's hair and pulled her back into another embrace, reassuring her that he was fine and everything was all right.

She _had_ to go away, even though she wanted to greet Papa too, for how else was she going to find a moment to put the tattered dress and the photographs back in the box?

Let Ivan come wobbling in and have his moment with their adoring parents.

She'd join the family and live off whatever love they had to share in just a little while. Soon as she was done with the task at hand.

Because that's what_ real_ princesses did.

They always kept their promises.

* * *

That night, Mama went through the cardboard box of old Romanov things herself and took out the gold-and-green 'jewelry' box. She used the necklace she always wore like a key to wind it up!

Why, it was a_ music_ box! Tatiana's mouth formed a perfect _O _as it opened and the two dancers spun round and round to a beautiful lullaby.

Mama and Papa danced, too. He pulled her in and spun her around while she hummed the tune. They twirled together, so many times Tatiana wondered how they could still _see _straight.

Maybe they simply didn't _care _that they were getting lightheaded...

When they finally stopped, Mama said something in Russian that sounded (as Ivan would have put it) 'mushy', and slid a hand up the front of Papa's shirt.

Papa cleared his throat and pulled away.

"Yes? What's wrong?" Mama blinked, taking her hand back.

He looked over his shoulder at the door. "Tatiana's watching."

**AN: Reviews are always welcome, if you feel so inclined.**


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